The four times Moriarty lied
by Thisaccounthasmovedgoodbye
Summary: And the one time he still did.


The Four Times Moriarty Lied and the One time he Still Did

James {'Jim' as it were} had this 'habit'.

'Habit' because it only seemed to happen _just _as Colonel Moran's eyes settled on him. Or perhaps nobody else paid enough mind to it to point out that he did it. Or maybe, nobody else cared.

When he focused, his brow would furrow, shadows over eyes that were already dark, and his tongue slid over his lower lip in concentration. Just quickly, just a flash, pale pink. Soft.

He must have noticed the tiny movement at the very corners of Sebastian's eyes the first time. Because he had looked up, eyes burning. Damn those eyes.

"Entertained?" he had drawled, and Sebastian's head tilted, just a bit, lips curling into the sort of frown one wore when they were not amused by someone's words, eyes glinting with something akin to annoyance.

"Come now, don't be like that, you obviously reacted on a biological instinct" the scraping of a pen's nib against paper continued as the shorter man resumed his work. That of which Moran had learned upon their first day together was not at all something to be asked about if you valued your sanity, then again, perhaps one gave up rights to their sanity as soon as they agreed to work for James Moriarty.

Or, at the very least, they agreed to put their sanity on the back burner for a time.

In any case, his dark eyes had glittered, the cold, emotionless gaze of a predator about to rip the throat from a lamb. And he had chuckled, sliding the papers towards Sebastian, that cruel look of amusement still plastered on his almost boyish face.

"You'll get over it"

That had been the first lie.

The second time was long after they met and shortly before Sherlock Holmes had come into the picture

It wasn't that Sebastian found killing fun. Well, perhaps just a little.

But the real fun, the part that made sniping an unassuming civilian from ridiculous distances, brilliant in every way, was how Jim reacted, fingers twitching, curling, tensing just that little bit, the world reflected in his dark eyes, there's crimson there now, the blood splattered against the wall shines against their glossy surface as if they really were mirrors.

"Another ten feet"

It had been the middle of the night, the shots were quiet, it was easy, just pick people off as they walked by in the street. It had started off easy. "Twenty feet" thirty, gotten higher, forty, fifty, sixty, they were at seventy now. Sebastian's eyes narrowing at the cityscape, drawing everything in and waiting for someone to walk by.

He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, rumbling, lub-dub lub-dub, he'd shoot between beats so that it wouldn't interfere with his aim.

Lub-dub. Good and easy.

A muffled shot, another splatter, Jim was surprisingly good at hiding his emotions, sometimes Sebastian wondered if what he showed was really how he felt, this seemed real though. Yet, toned down, as if Jim were hiding how truly amused he was in favor of allowing his lips to quirk up just-so at the corners, eyes gleaming just-a-bit more. "Another ten"

He would have to concentrate hard for this one then. Lub-dub, heart still even. And then, it quickened, and it took his mind a moment to register what his body already had, Jim kneeling beside him, hand on his shoulder, those almost-dainty fingers curled against the fabric of his coat.

"You can do it"

But that was the second lie.

Because, lubdublubdub, his heart was racing, and firing between the beats would be an effort in and of itself, sweat beading up at his brow, concentrating.

"Bang"

Finger slipping on the trigger, because Jim's voice was _right there_, against his ear, hot and slowly drawled, and the bullet pounded against the wall just to the left of the man's head whom he'd been aiming for. And Jim laughed, amused by it all, and Sebastian had scowled, annoyed at his own mistake.

"Let's go home"

And they did.

The third time was years after they met and shortly after Sherlock Holmes had come into the picture

He should have known, the moment that name had slipped through Jim's lips, that it was the beginning of the end.

"Sherlock Holmes"

Apparently he was a clever man, with glasz eyes and curling black hair, tall, sharp cheek-boned and, as Jim had put it, 'quite attractive'.

Sebastian couldn't see it, but then, Sebastian didn't generally like men, he wasn't sure if Jim was an exception to the rule or if Jim was simply the type of person who transcended silly things like gender and sex, if he was so high above such concept that those around him couldn't help but see past his as well.

Sebastian didn't spend too much time dwelling on it, what happened simply happened, like he gave a fuck if one or two people got on his case about it, he'd pop a bullet in their head and call it a day. In retrospect, he should have popped a bullet in Sherlock's head and called it a day as well, and he certainly would have, if he could see the future or if his future self could go back in time to make wrong things right.

He learned about Sherlock because Jim was interested in Sherlock, and Sebastian made it his business to keep track of the things his boss held interest in. He learned a lot of things. That Sherlock was clever, maybe, he admitted with a scowl and an unintentional bite to the end of his cigarette, as clever as 'his' Moriarty.

He learned that Sherlock didn't eat when he was busy, that he had a brother named Mycroft, that he smoked for a while, but gave it up due to the expenses in favor of nicotine patches. He learned that Sherlock was often bored, that he knew his way around a gun enough to use it, that he had used cocaine on occasion, but had, as of late, quit.

But he never learned why Sherlock was so interesting, he tried, he did, he looked, and thought, and spied, and spent nights tossing and turning in his bed one arm cast over his eyes, the other extended above his head, a scowl on his lips and sleep just out of reach, wondering, and wishing he knew exactly what the hell was so interesting about Sherlock god-damn Holmes.

And finally, one day, he asked. Hands coming down upon the table Jim sat at, making the cup of tea there spill and the teapot shake, and Moriarty had looked at it in exasperation, rolled those big dark eyes of his and drawled out a soft; "Really, must you make such a mess so early?" and trailed a finger through the liquid only to lap it away, and Sebastian could have sworn then and there that his boss was teasing him, and maybe, maybe this time, he would have acted on it, if he hadn't had the question burning holes in his mind.

"What is Sherlock to you?"

And Jim had laughed and laughed, and smiled, and said "Just a fleeting interest"

His eyes had returned to the papers he held, adding, quite simply, "I'll get bored of him soon"

But that was lie number three, and Sebastian should have known that.

The fourth time felt as though an eternity had passed after they had met, and long after Sherlock Holmes had come into the picture

They had been like a mirror.

Sherlock and John.

Jim and Sebastian.

Except Sherlock pretty much treated John like shit in Sebastian's opinion, not that he gave even half a fuck, but that wasn't the point.

The point was how they interacted, how John behaved.

And Moran, for a moment, was almost jealous...

How Moriarty found things out, how he read people, Sebastian was never sure, like everyone had their thoughts written on their face or their hearts on strings bound up to their wrists, but know he did.

That's how he twisted things, that's how he used people, tugged their emotions apart, shredded them, left them strewn about like confetti, breaking hearts always warranted a party.

"we could be like that"

He'd drawled those words one day, but Moran was keen now, had smirked back, blown a smoke ring and pointed out;

"You're lying"

The fifth time was a lifetime after they had met.

He was going to be glad to be rid of Sherlock. How he took up Jim's attention, he was little more than a nuisance.

But more than that, he was looking forward to it all being over, because that morning, he'd been staring into his coffee when the reflection of another caught his eye, and honey-coated words had warmed the shell of his ear. "Tonight"

And that was all he'd needed, because all he wanted? Maybe that was the sort of thing better left to darkness, the kind of thing the sun would turn itself from anyway.

Seconds, minutes, hours, tick-tocking away until it was his time to leave the building, sit in the musty stairway of a building long unused, he felt comfortable here, vision etched with a cross trained on the street below, people walking by, they'd be easy to pick off. Pop pop pop, fish in a barrel.

But there wasn't time for that, because he was looking for someone in particular, head of messy blond hair and a gaze set firm. Not that anything would happen; because Moriarty always won in the end.

Which was why it was almost startling, the ringing of his phone, and for a moment he wondered if it was a trick, a trap, because he'd not seen John arrive, not seen Sherlock jump, so things weren't over, things hadn't even started. Weighing options in his mind, which would it be better to get in trouble for? Answering or not answering?

He never was perfectly well behaved.

The clicking of his gun, ringing in his ears, familiar sound, the clicking of the phone, barely newer. "I'm afraid we're going to have to cancel our plans for the night"

Big surprise, lying fuck, that was hardly something to call over, unless he was bored, and oh did Jim ever get bored. "Come down with a headache? At least tell me you have a better excuse than that" the reply came smoothly, came with a smile, because a serious answer wouldn't exactly entertain, wouldn't pull the amusement from the situation he knew Jim wanted.

He thought Jim wanted.

"Yes actually, a rather bad one"

And there was laughter, and the clicking of a phone being closed, which didn't matter, because oh, there was John, and he had a job to do, even if that Job was just to watch, and wait, and more likely than not, do nothing.

A lot of his job seemed to be 'doing nothing'

But the gun that went off? The sound that shattered the air? Well, it wasn't his gun.

And hours later, when the crowd had cleared? When Sherlock had been cleaned up off the street? That's when he went creeping to the rooftop. Not that he'd expected anything else, lying goddamn snake to the very end, grinning up and wide eyed. And Sebastian's eyes settled on those eyes. Molten chocolate, 'Chocolate-and-blood'.

"God damn you"

And the smile that tugged at his lips wasn't joy, or freedom, the grin that pulled itself onto his expression accompanied by laughter and wild-eyed gaze, that was the look dogs gave right before they ripped a man's throat out.

For a moment, he thought maybe he should kneel down, close Jim's eyes, but he wouldn't have wanted that, after all;

You couldn't watch lies unravel with your eyes closed.


End file.
